


Lust

by CR Noble (erudite12)



Series: Seven Dead Sinners [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 500 subarus, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Domestic af, Graphic Torture, Judas Cradle, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Post-murder sex, So Married, Strappado, Top!Michael, Unprotected Sex, Zachariah is a pedophile, basement murder room, blowjob, bottom!Crowley - Freeform, enhanced interrogation, incidental blood consumption, mention of pedophilia, mentions of past suicide attempt, murder husbands AU, non-con drugging, serial killer!au, spn dark fic bang 2019, totally vanilla sex with a corpse in the room, various medieval torture implements, wrap it before you tap it kids, young John!Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-24 23:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20714135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erudite12/pseuds/CR%20Noble
Summary: Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sinsHebrews 9:22





	Lust

**Author's Note:**

> Woooo POSTING DAY!!!!!!!!
> 
> Okay, omg, so this fic was super fun to write and I hope you guys enjoy it! But I especially hope you enjoy the absolutely amazing art from Slytherkins. Like... dude... I still just sit and stare at the pieces and fangirl about them. They're so beautiful. They're embedded in the fic, but you should totally spread them all over the Tumblr because I literally can't say enough about them. And to top it all off, Slytherkins was pinch hitting for me, so I got all this awesome art on a pretty short comparative time frame AND they were so awesome to work with :D
> 
> [Art Masterpost](https://slytherkins.tumblr.com/post/187901340076/sooo-glad-i-got-to-work-on-this-fic-it-was-a)
> 
> Also, huge thank you to Galaxystiel for beta reading this for me, you're amazing!!
> 
> Thank you to PhoenyxNova for making me ship this ship, and to The Golden Bitches for supporting my weird shipping habits (and my homicidal habits).
> 
> Anywho, here's the thing. I hope you love it!

Michael stared down into the engine compartment of a very nondescript black Honda Accord. The hood was propped up and he braced himself against the front bumper. It wasn’t running at that moment, and Michael didn’t know the first damned thing about cars. The sun was rising over Gibbon Street and it was a quiet Friday morning as Michael and his car sat on the side of the road by the park, across from the quaint little row houses that comprised most of the residential areas of Alexandria.

Looking up and down the sidewalk, Michael sighed and shook his head, a dark curl falling over his forehead. His too-tight skinny jeans hung too low, clinging to his body so that when he reached up to rest the heel of his palm on the front edge of the hood, his too-small shirt rode up and revealed sharp hip bones, a flat stomach, and a barely-there trail of curls just above the button of his pants. 

“Excuse me, son,” said a voice behind Michael. “Do you need some help?”

Michael turned and was face-to-face with an older man, in maybe his fifties, with what seemed like a rapidly growing bald spot in the middle of his head surrounded by short, patchy gray and white hair. His face was rather round and undefined beyond the pair of sunken eyes and the mostly straight, pointed nose that sat above a decidedly unattractive, thin-lipped mouth. His suit was cheap, jacket hanging open over an equally cheap white dress shirt and boring gray tie. The man was taller and heavier--a bit paunchy around the middle, to be honest--than Michael, and his eyes seemed to carry a naturally predatory glint.

“Yes, sir,” Michael said respectfully and with an awkward chuckle, voice high-pitched to his own ears. “It's just, I borrowed my mom’s car and it broke down on me. I don’t have my cell ‘cuz it was s’posed to be just a quick trip to the store.” Shrugging, he rubbed the back of his neck nervously and found it very difficult to ignore the way the older man’s eyes dropped from his face to the just exposed skin above his waistband.

“You can use my phone to call your mother,” the man offered, eyes still focused far lower on Michael’s body than was proper. 

Michael chuckled awkwardly again, and said, “That’s probably a bad idea. When I say I borrowed her car, what I mean is she doesn’t know I have it.” The man raised an eyebrow at him and opened his mouth to speak, but Michael interrupted, “Look, I’m sixteen and my mom refuses to let me get my driver’s license. I just wanted to go for a little spin, is all. Can you help me out?”

The man licked his lips and took a step closer to Michael. “You stole your mother’s car. I should call the police.” He took another step closer.

“No, you don’t have to do that,” Michael protested, raising a hand. “Please, don’t do that. Mom’ll kill me.”

Another step and the man was invading Michael’s personal space. He smelled like cigars, cheap whiskey and cheaper cologne, and Michael inched back to try and put some distance between himself and the man. The back of his thighs pressed almost painfully into the front of the car, but he could still feel the stranger’s hot breath on his face.

“I might be persuaded to leave them out of this,” the man said, raising an eyebrow. “If there’s something in it for me.”

Michael’s hands rested on the edge of the engine compartment, fingers hanging in the space between the lip of the painted body and the metal frame. “Wh--what do you want?”

The man’s hand was on Michael’s face then, a thumb pulling at his lower lip as he looked down at him with lust-darkened eyes. “You have such a pretty mouth, my boy.” Everything about the stranger made Michael cringe. “I think you could put it to much better use on your knees.”

Trapped between the hard frame of the car and the soft flesh of the older man, Michael leaned back, pulling his face away from the meaty hand that assaulted it. “Yeah,” he said, voice dropping into its normal range as his fingers closed around the cylinder he’d hidden in the engine compartment earlier. “That’s not gonna happen.”

The man’s face twisted in confusion and anger, and he opened his mouth to say something else. Michael moved quickly, grabbing the wrist of the hand that still hovered near his face and pulling the arm forward. It knocked the man off balance and gave Michael the chance to jab the needle into his neck and quickly depress the plunger, pushing a heavy mix of Ketamine and Valium into the older man’s bloodstream. 

“What the hell are you doing?” the man asked, slapping a hand to the side of his neck as Michael removed the needle. 

The drug cocktail worked quickly and the man sagged heavily against Michael. Even knowing ahead of time that his victim was much bigger than he was, Michael struggled a little with the oppressive weight suddenly pressing into his body. Hooking his arms underneath the older man’s armpits, Michael used the car as leverage to push forward so the unconscious form was between his legs.

He dragged the body, awkwardly straddling it as he moved around the side of the car and thanked his lucky stars that he’d been smart enough to leave the back door open. With a grunt of effort, Michael leaned the man against the side of the back seat and circled to the driver’s side to open the door and climb in. It was difficult, but he managed to pull his victim up into the car and drag him across the seat. He shut the door on the driver’s side, walked around and pushed dangling legs in over the man’s stomach so he could shut the other door.

Michael sighed with relief as he sat in the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled away from the curb. He drove confidently in the direction of home, knowing after the high dose cocktail he’d injected the man with, he wouldn’t wake up for at least an hour. It gave him plenty of time to get where he was going.

Before he pulled out onto the highway, Michael sent a quick text for his boyfriend to leave the door leading from the garage into the house open. Turning the radio up, he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat and sang along with _ When the Day Met the Night _with a smile on his face.

Twenty minutes later, Michael was pressing the button to open his garage door as he pulled into the driveway of the nice, neat suburban house at 500 Subaru Drive.

It was a beautiful house; the lawn was bright green and freshly mowed, surrounded by neatly trimmed hedges. There were cement stepping stones leading from the sidewalk to the front steps. The small front porch had a few plants in hanging pots and an expensive wooden rocking chair next to a small side table. White siding covered the house, making the dark green shutters surrounding the windows stand out starkly under the gray shingled roof. It was exactly the kind of house most kids dreamed of living in. All it was missing was a tire swing hanging from the branches of the large oak tree in the backyard and a white picket fence.

Michael put the car in park and hit the button again, letting the garage door close behind him. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out and opened the back door of the Honda and bent to hook his arms under the unconscious man once more. Dragging him out was definitely easier than getting him into the car had been, but Michael still breathed heavily with the effort of pulling him across the threshold into the kitchen.

“Hello, Darling,” Crowley said behind him.

Smiling, Michael looked over his shoulder without dropping the body and saw his boyfriend leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand. “Hey, honey, how did your meeting go?”

“It went well. I believe I’ve convinced the client to buy the first edition copy of _ The Knee of Listening _ for far more than it’s worth,” Crowley replied, coming around the kitchen’s island to kiss Michael softly. “I see you had a productive morning.”

“Yeah, the son of a bitch is heavier than I thought he would be,” Michael complained as he started dragging the man backward again. “But I managed well enough.”

Crowley just hummed appreciatively in response. “Why don’t you get him downstairs and leave him to me while you get ready?”

Michael nodded and smiled gratefully, stopping for a moment and letting the load of his victim rest against his shins. “Thank you.” He pulled Crowley in for another kiss.

“Of course, Darling,” Crowley said with a smile. “I know how uncomfortable men like him make you. I’ll have a cup of coffee for you when you come back up.”

With that, Michael returned to the task of getting the large, unconscious man down to the basement. By the time he made it to the door at the top of the stairs, he was tempted to roll the bastard down, but the risk of a broken neck was too high. It would be highly unsatisfying if Mister Adler died before he confessed his sins.

Michael was panting with effort when he finally reached the bottom of the stairs, trying not to think about the fact that he was going to have to drag this waste of space back up and out to the car again when he and Crowley were finished with him.

The plastic on the floor crinkled beneath his feet as he moved, not bothering to stop and turn the light on. The muscles in Michael’s arms and back were burning when he unceremoniously dropped Adler in the relative middle of the room. He reached toward the ceiling, stretching as he went back upstairs to take a shower.

* * *

Michael’s hair was still dripping, leaving wet spots on the shoulders of the white button-down he’d put on after the shower, as he made his way back down the stairs. The lights were on when he entered the basement this time, revealing the mostly open space. 

The only furniture in the room was a single stainless steel chair Michael had swiped months ago from one of the interrogation rooms at work. A plastic drop cloth covered almost the entirety of the concrete floor. In the center of the space, the latest sinner hung naked from a rope tied around his wrists and threaded through a sturdy anchor ring that dangled from the ceiling. His toes just barely brushed against the floor and his head lolled to one side, still unconscious.

Just behind him was a stool with a pyramid-shaped pointed seat, the Judas Cradle that Crowley only pulled out when he found a target extremely revolting. Or for someone that touched Michael in any way that made him uncomfortable, which was to say, any way at all as Michael generally only cared to be touched by his lover. 

Mister Adler, of course, met both of those qualifications.

Crowley stood off to one side, and Michael shook his head at the expensive tailored suit he wore. It was nothing new, really. Crowley always dressed like that, but Michael knew it would be ruined by the time the evening was over and couldn’t fathom why Crowley wouldn’t at least wear something they could wash the blood out of. At least he had the sense to wear an apron.

The table beside Crowley held a ridiculous number of torture implements. There were at least fifteen different knives, all of different shapes and lengths, laid out in a neat, orderly way next to pliers, a blowtorch, and several brands. Further down sat the more traditional tools that Crowley often preferred like thumbscrews, twin knee splitters, and a nameless thing or twelve that Michael had watched his boyfriend use to separate skin from muscle more than once.

Michael had grown quite used to Crowley’s habit of doing everything in excess, not that he’d ever really minded. It was just that Michael enjoyed the simplicity of locking a man in a cold, dark, soundproofed room without food or water for days until he readily confessed his sins and Michael could cut his throat and be done with it. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t relish the way Crowley made them scream and beg for the end, though. Not to mention the confessions came much more quickly this way.

“Feeling better, love?” Crowley asked with a smile as Michael approached.

Michael had to admit his lover looked dashing in the three-piece gray suit. It was, quite possibly, the only thing that kept him from constantly bitching about the expense of replacing ruined three-thousand dollar suits. Not that they couldn’t afford it. Crowley could sell water to a drowning man, and get him to pay twice its worth. Between what he made dealing rare books, and Michael’s meager salary from the FBI, they were quite well off.

Putting his arms around Crowley’s waist and pulling him close, Michael nodded. “Much better. Did you bring my file down?”

“Of course, I did. It’s on your chair.” Crowley gestured toward the other side of the room and, sure enough, the manila folder sat on the stainless steel chair.

“Well, then,” Michael said, bending to press a kiss to Crowley’s lips. “I suppose it’s time we get started. Wake him up.” With that, Michael crossed the room to his chair, pulling it toward the man that hung in the middle of the room until it was only about a foot away as Crowley picked up a bucket of ice water and threw its contents against the man’s bare skin.

He came to with a gasp, his surprise making him swing just a little until he realized he was hanging and struggled for purchase with his toes. “Where am I? What the hell is going on here?” he screamed.

“Good afternoon,” Michael said, pulling the legs of his slacks up just a hair as he sat down and crossed his legs. He opened the file and looked calmly up at the older man. “Thank you for joining us. I have a few questions for you, and I require that you answer them fully, honestly, and to the best of your ability. Can you do that?”

“I’m not answering a goddamn thing!” the man shouted. “Now, you let me go right now! Do you have any idea who I am?”

Michael glanced down at the first page of the file as if he didn’t know what was written on it. “I’m going to start with the basics, just to confirm your identity.”

“Let me out of here, god damn it!” 

Sighing heavily, Michael glanced over at Crowley and nodded sharply. He watched as Crowley walked around behind the hanging man, pulling on a pair of thick gloves, and grabbed the rope between where it was threaded through the ring in the ceiling and tied to another anchor installed in the floor. Putting all of his body weight into it, Crowley pulled the rope, lifting their victim several inches higher off the floor, and then let it go. 

The man dropped harshly and as the rope snapped taut, there was a satisfyingly sickening ‘pop’ of his shoulders being dislocated by his own weight. Judging from how hard his feet hit the floor, he’d probably sustained a few broken toes as well. Michael didn’t miss the cruel smirk on Crowley’s face as screams of pain filled the, thankfully, sound-proofed room.

Michael looked up at the man, patiently waiting for him to stop his caterwauling. Sweat already dripped from his brow, and tears streamed down his face. His features were twisted in beautiful agony, and it was probably the only moment in the despicable fool’s life that anyone had ever considered anything about him less than repugnant.

As much as he enjoyed that moment when the life was snuffed out of his victim’s eyes, Michael had to admit that since meeting Crowley, this had become his favorite part. The way the pain drew pretty pleas for mercy from the lips of the wicked, and the gorgeous expressions on their faces as they begged could make the most hideous of creatures hauntingly beautiful.

Smiling serenely, Michael began his questioning. “Your name is Zachariah Adler, is that correct?” The man only sobbed silently in response. “If you refuse to answer even the most basic of questions, you’re only making this harder on yourself.”

Adler remained silent still, and Crowley took a step toward him. Michael raised an authoritative hand, stopping Crowley in his tracks, though the scowl on his face clearly communicated his displeasure. “Mister Adler,” Michael began softly. “You must understand that my partner very much enjoys causing you excruciating pain. I simply want answers. Honesty. Now, is your name Zachariah Adler?”

“Yes,” he finally answered, voice raspy and anguished. Breaking this one would be far easier than the last person that had found themself strung up in this basement.

Michael smiled up at him. “See, that wasn’t so hard. You are fifty-six years old, and you’re the Vice President of Marketing at Sandover, Incorporated?”

Zachariah nodded and groaned at the pain the movement must have caused. “Yes. Why are you doing this? I don’t understand.”

Michael’s eyes flicked over to Crowley, who had moved around to stand between Zachariah and the table. Crowley smiled at Michael—a soft, warm smile that only ever belonged to Michael—and reached for one of his tools. His fingers closed around the wooden handle of an ice pick. Spinning it with his dexterous fingers, Crowley turned back to Zachariah and drove it into the already swelling joint of his right shoulder.

Zachariah’s exquisite cry of pain made Michael’s ears ring, and he closed his eyes as he savored the sound. He looked down at the file in his lap and adjusted his position, letting both of his feet rest on the floor and leaning forward with the dossier in his hands. “I will be the only one asking questions tonight, Mister Adler.”

As he flipped to the second page, Michael decided it was time to start asking the real questions. “What was the nature of your rel—”

_ I like big butts and I cannot lie _

Michael let the pages drop against the back of the file as he rolled his eyes and turned to Crowley. “Are you kidding me?” he asked incredulously.

“What?” Crowley asked with an impish grin. “I like the song.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the screen. “I’m sorry, love, but it’s a client. I have to take this.”

“Right now? We’re a little busy, wouldn’t you say?” Michael hated interruptions, but at least Crowley had the wisdom to look contrite about it.

“Yes, Darling, I know, but if I don’t answer this I will likely lose the deal.” Crowley turned to Zachariah, firmly gripping his chin and lifting his head so the man was forced to make eye contact. “If I hear a single bloody sound out of you while I take this call, your night will get exponentially worse.”

Michael sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to drive the irritation away as Crowley answered the phone.

“Hello? Ah yes, Mister Smith… Of course, I haven’t forgotten… Yes, yes, the book is still available.” The conversation seemed to carry on forever, and Michael only grew more impatient as his boyfriend chattered away on the call. Zachariah remained silent. Apparently, he was smart enough to take Crowley’s threat seriously.

“Crowley,” Michael began, frustration evident in his voice. “Can you wrap it up, please? You’re ruining a very pleasant evening with business.”

“Tomorrow at four? Of course, Mister Smith. I’ll see you then. Yes, you have a lovely evening as well,” Crowley said before finally hanging up the phone.

An ache was building at the base of Michael’s skull and he rubbed at his temples for a moment. “Would you have the decency to take this seriously?”

“I’m sorry, Michael, it was important.” Crowley walked over and pressed his thumbs into the tense muscle between Michael’s shoulder blades, rubbing circles to loosen it. Which, much to Michael’s relief and dismay, worked like a damn charm. “You know I take all of our activities very seriously.”

Michael reluctantly nodded, waving Crowley off and absolutely not admitting that his head ached less. “Turn off your ringer so we can get back to this, please.” Crowley did so and stuffed his phone back in his pocket, resuming his place between Zachariah and the table, and gesturing for Michael to continue. “My apologies for that interruption in our conversation,” Michael said, smiling at the dangling man who looked confused and terrified all at once. “As I was saying… What was the nature of your relationship with Adam Milligan three years ago?”

Zachariah’s eyes went wide and he shook his head, biting back an agonized moan. “I don’t know who that is.”

“It seems our little break has made you bold, Mister Adler.” Michael shook his head, gesturing pointedly at him with the file. “I told you the only thing I want from you is honesty. Why is it that you insist on lying?”

“I’m not… I’m not lying,” Zachariah said, trying to scramble away from Crowley but getting nowhere, and only causing himself more pain, judging by the scream that ripped from his throat.

Michael sat back in the chair, running a hand through his thick, still not quite dry hair and flexing his clenched jaw. “When I was a kid, before my dad ran off, I remember getting in trouble for something at school and coming home to see my old man sitting at the dining room table, waiting for me. And he would always ask ‘do you have something you want to tell me?’ It only took one lie for me to realize that when someone asks you a question like that, they already know the answer.” Michael paused, meeting Zachariah’s already tired gaze. “So, I am going to ask you one more time. What was the nature of your relationship with Adam Milligan three years ago?”

“I told you,” the man said frantically. “I don’t know any Adam Milligan.”

Blowing out a vexed breath, Michael leaned forward again and waved a hand at Crowley, then flipped another page of the file up. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Crowley moving, probably perusing the choices he had laid out on the table. “Adam Milligan, son of Kate Milligan and an unknown father. Lived next door to you for fifteen years, Mister Adler.” Michael looked up to see Crowley wielding a large, intricately carved knife. “Care to try again?”

“I knew his mom, okay,” Zachariah said. Michael could hear the shaky appeal in his voice. “I didn’t know the kid, I swear.” He bellowed unintelligibly as Crowley drew the knife across his ribs. Blood sprayed momentarily from the wound, just far enough to splatter across Michael’s face.

Michael remained unphased. “He’s going to keep cutting until you tell the truth.” As if to emphasize Michael’s point, Crowley dragged the knife across Zachariah’s ribs again, just under the first cut, and then a third time below that. The identical lacerations were orderly and perfectly spaced, creating a pattern reminiscent of claws.

Zachariah screamed again. “Please, just let me go. Whatever that kid told you, it’s not true.”

“We’re getting nowhere,” Crowley said, turning to face Michael and flippantly gesturing with the knife. It wasn’t really a complaint; Crowley enjoyed the pain he created. Moving over to the table, he put the knife down and picked up a pair of shears.

“You know, Mister Adler,” Michael said, standing and dropping his file onto the chair. “My patience will not last forever.” He stepped close to Zachariah, lifting the man’s chin with a finger so their eyes met. “If you just confess, this can all be over.”

Crowley crouched in front of Zachariah, who was silent other than the pitiful moans of agony that came with every tiny shift of the positioning of his body. A crooked smirk crossed Crowley’s face as he reached toward the hanging man’s feet, which were bruised and mangled from hitting the concrete floor when his shoulders had been forcefully dislocated.

“This little piggy went to the market,” he sing-songed, grabbing a broken big toe and wiggling it to draw a cry from Zachariah before he moved to the next toe on that foot, continuing the rhyme. “This little piggy stayed home. This little piggy had roast beef, and this little piggy had none.” Tears were flowing freely from Zachariah’s eyes by the time Crowley reached the last toe. 

Michael still held his head and his gaze, despite his revulsion at being so close to the man. “If you won’t talk about Adam Milligan, perhaps you’d prefer Benjamin Braeden? Or Maxwell Miller?”

Zachariah opened his mouth like he was about to say something through his heavy, ragged breathing but was interrupted by Crowley. “This little piggy went wee, wee, wee—” he closed the shears around the small toe, separating it from the foot with a snap and Zachariah’s punctuating scream. “—all the way home.”

Sighing, Michael let Zachariah’s head drop and stepped back as Crowley stood. He was sure Zachariah had been about to start talking, but Crowley’s little game had interrupted. It was quite frustrating, to say the least. Michael looked at his boyfriend and tried to tamp down the anger building in his chest. “You said you would take this seriously.”

“I am taking it seriously,” Crowley replied, running a surprisingly calming hand down Michael’s arm. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a touch of fun.”

“Crowley, how is he supposed to answer my questions if all he can do is scream?”

Crowley shrugged, looking a bit petulant and letting his hand drop to his side. “He’s clearly not interested in talking anyway, Michael. You already know he’s guilty, so why bother continuing to ask?”

Michael looked down, brow furrowed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know how this works. He has to confess. It’s unsatisfactory if I kill him before then.” When he looked back up at Crowley, Michael sighed again and took his lover’s hands in his to pull him closer. “I know you want to have fun with this, and that’s fine. But it has to be about more than that, okay?”

“Yes, alright,” Crowley replied sulkily. Returning to his table, he slammed the shears down onto its surface and picked up a knee splitter. It was a vicious looking contraption, the spiky metal teeth jutting from the wood at the top. An identical piece of toothed wood beneath it could be moved by using the handles at the end of two long, thick screw. Crowley turned the handle, spreading the teeth wide enough that he could fit the thing over Zachariah’s leg and start sliding it up to his knee.

“Mister Adler,” Michael said, ignoring Zachariah’s groaning as the metal spikes ripped into his skin, leaving bloody red trails snaking up his calves. “The fact is I have a very long list of your exploits in this file.” He picked the manila folder up off the chair, holding it out so Zachariah could see it before returning to his original position in the chair. “Not to mention that you tried to proposition me when you thought I was a sixteen-year-old.”

“You just said you were going to kill me after I confess,” Zachariah breathed. “Why would I give you what you want?”

Crowley glanced back at Michael once he had the heavy device situated where he wanted it, and Michael nodded. 

As Crowley started turning the handles, driving the two planks closer together, Michael spoke again. “You are going to die tonight, Mister Adler, nothing you do will change that. But if you give a full confession, all of this pain will end quickly. If not, well…” Michael gestured toward Crowley.

Zachariah couldn’t hold back the scream as the tightening knee splitter dug into flesh and bone, but Crowley didn’t stop turning the handles until the gruesome crunch of the joint being crushed was heard above the cries. 

“Okay!” Zachariah yelled. “I knew Adam. I knew all those boys.”

“That is a very good start, Mister Adler.” Michael put the file down on the floor, leaned back in the chair, and clasped his hands behind his head. “Please continue. I believe I inquired about the nature of your relationship with Adam.”

Hearing broken men confess their sins satisfied Michael in a way that nothing else in life ever could. So, when Zachariah hesitated—yet again—Michael nearly lost his temper. Which is to say, his hands balled into fists and dug into his thighs as he leaned forward, his brows drew together and his lips curled into a sneer as he squeezed his eyes closed, and he fought the urge to choke the life out of Zachariah with his bare hands. But he never got out of his chair.

Sitting while they interrogated a sinner was an ingenious idea that Crowley had come up with after Michael lost his temper with a woman who was particularly difficult to break. Instead of waiting for her to confess and then killing her, Michael had bludgeoned her to death with his fists. His need to hear the offender’s sins from her own mouth entirely unsatisfied, Michael and Crowley had to seek out a sinner to replace her. Since they’d started using a chair, Michael had not had that problem again.

After regaining his calm and opening his eyes, Michael saw that Crowley had pushed the Judas Cradle forward so it stood directly below Zachariah. He must have adjusted the hanging man as well, because he sat atop the pyramid and blood already fell down its faces. It was Zachariah’s agonized scream, Michael realized, that had brought him back to the reality in front of him.

Taking a deep breath, Michael forced his hands open and sat back. “I will not end this until you give me a full, detailed confession. Everything you ever did to every boy on the list.”

The words poured from Zachariah then, in much the same manner as the tears poured from his eyes. He paused only to cry out in pain when his body shifted involuntarily, or when Crowley poked or prodded at his flesh and made him move. Michael was disgusted and delighted by the confession all at once. There was a sense of vindication, hearing Zachariah admit to the perverse desires he harbored for young boys. He deserved every second of the pain he was receiving, and Michael was responsible for bringing that justice upon him. It was a high unlike any other.

That was why he needed the confessions. If they didn’t admit to it, there was no justice. Only wrath. And if Michael couldn’t justify himself through a confession, then he felt his wrath deserved to be punished as much as the sins of any of his victims. Michael had tried to take his own life once for that very reason, but Crowley stopped him and showed him a better way.

“That’s it,” Zachariah breathed. “Every sexual relationship I’ve ever had with an underage boy.” Blood pooled on the floor beneath him, and his already pasty complexion was positively cadaverous from the loss. “Kill me,” he begged. “Please, make it stop.”

A second later Crowley was at Michael’s side, pressing the hilt of his favored dagger into his hand. It was long, silvery and triangular; no better than any other knife for slitting someone’s throat, really. But it was a well-crafted thing of beauty. The way the light reflected off of it was nearly heavenly, making it the perfect weapon for an avenging angel. 

Michael was still in a daze when he looked up at Crowley and wrapped his fingers around the handle. For the first time since coming downstairs, Michael noticed that everything was bathed in the warm, hazy glow of the low lighting Crowley had insisted on—’because fluorescent lights kill the mood, Darling’—and the incandescent gleam in the air around Crowley made him look almost angelic. Michael chuckled at the thought of someone who was known by the public as “The King of Hell” being remotely associated with Heaven.

Crowley’s crooked smile was soft and charming. “Come on, then, love,” he encouraged, running fingers that were sticky with Zachariah’s blood through Michael’s hair.

Turning slowly toward Zachariah, Michael stood and walked past Crowley. With a hand on the broken sinner’s chest, he pushed back slightly and ignored the bawling as Zachariah’s head lolled backward and fully exposed his throat. Michael dragged the knife across it slowly, making sure the arteries on both sides of the neck were severed.

Even after the blood Zachariah had lost on the cradle, more flowed quickly from his throat, coating the dying man’s skin and running crimson over Michael’s hand. He stood there, watching the life drain from Zachariah’s eyes, waiting for his breathing and the flow of blood to cease. In death, Michael found Zachariah to be something he most certainly would never have been thought of in life.

_ Beautiful _.

Time always seemed to move more slowly in these moments, but Michael didn’t mind. Death was intoxicating. The blank glaze of Zachariah’s still open, staring eyes, and the copper tang of blood in the air had Michael in a state of giddy euphoria that he wished he would never come down from. He never felt as alive as he did when he was dealing death.

Crowley touched his arm, and Michael turned to face him with a wide smile. His hand dropped away from Zachariah’s chest, dripping dark red, and came to rest on Crowley’s face.

“How are you feeling?” Crowley asked, concern evident in his tone. Since Michael’s suicide attempt, the question had become part of their ritual.

“I’m good,” Michael said softly, reaching behind Crowley to set his dagger carefully back on the table. Blood smeared across his cheek as Michael’s hand slid down to his neck to pull him in for a long, slow kiss. His other arm wrapped around his boyfriend’s waist, pulling him closer until their bodies were flush, and Michael was very suddenly reminded of the way too many layers that Crowley wore.

With dexterous fingers, he untied the knot that held the apron strings together at Crowley’s back and let the tails fall. When Michael broke the kiss, his once white button-down stuck to his chest, drenched in blood that had spattered across Crowley. He lifted the apron over Crowley’s head, then reached to loosen the tie, examining his lover’s face as he pulled the tail free from the knot.

“Anyone ever tell you red is your color?” Michael smirked as he let silk run softly between his fingers and fall to the floor.

Crowley returned the smile and tugged Michael’s shirt, untucking it, before he started unbuttoning it. “I’ve heard it once or twice.” He pushed the button-down over Michael’s shoulders, his hands following the sleeves all the way down, a trail of goosebumps left in their wake.

Michael mirrored the action with Crowley’s jacket, and then worked at the buttons of his vest. “You know, you could occasionally not wear the vest,” he teased as he removed it. The shirt underneath it followed quickly.

“Yes, but what would be the fun in that?” Crowley’s brown eyes twinkled as he looked up at Michael, his fingers digging into the flesh at his hips as he drew him closer. 

Michael bent to catch Crowley’s mouth with his, and the metallic taste of blood that still hadn’t dried hit him as he pressed his tongue against Crowley’s lower lip insistently until they parted. Their tongues slid together as Michael slowly, deliberately tasted and claimed Crowley’s mouth entirely.

Crowley wrapped his arms tightly around Michael, and Michael felt Crowley’s hot skin against his chest. He softly caressed the skin of Crowley’s back, letting his fingers ghost over the raised scars, and groaned when he felt the already hard length of Crowley’s dick against his thigh. Breathless, Michael broke away from Crowley’s lips and trailed kisses across his jawline and neck, pausing there to suck a mark onto his skin.

The taste of Crowley’s salty sweat and the iron tang of Zachariah’s blood was a heady, intoxicating mix in Michael’s mouth, and his cock strained against the fabric of his boxers. He resisted the urge to palm himself only because he wanted tonight to be about Crowley; he wanted to show Crowley how much he appreciated him and everything he did for Michael.

Michael walked Crowley back slowly, just a few steps, until he was leaning against the table. Then his lips, tongue, and teeth lazily worked their across the expanse of skin that was Crowley’s chest and stomach. Michael paused to pay special attention to those spots that he knew would draw gasping moans from his lover—sucking a mark just above the clavicle, laving a taut nipple and pulling at it with his teeth, biting gently just below the ribcage—as he slowly lowered himself to his knees.

The concrete floor was hard and cold even through a layer of plastic and the blood on the floor seeped quickly into the fabric of Michael’s pants, but the discomfort didn’t detract from the moment. He turned his blue eyes up to meet Crowley’s gaze, dark with lust, and unbuckled his belt before gently, patiently pulling it through the loops. The leather made a soft sound against the fabric as the tip of the belt came loose of each loop until it was finally off and dropping to the floor with a metallic ring as the buckle collided with the hard surface.

“Such a tease,” Crowley said, his voice low and thick with want. 

Michael grinned up at him, running his hands up the back of Crowley’s legs to squeeze his ass. “It’s payback for the vest,” he countered. “Besides, you love it when I take my time.” He winked and leaned forward, biting at Crowley’s inner thigh through his pants to emphasize the point.

Crowley groaned and tangled his fingers in Michael’s hair. “You know me entirely too well, Darling.”

Michael hummed his agreement and deftly unbuttoned and unzipped Crowley’s slacks, unhurriedly dragging them down to his ankles before moving on to the black silk boxers. He kissed at the exposed flesh above the waistband as he pulled them down almost as slowly as the pants. 

Part of him wanted to drag things out even longer, but Michael knew it would be impractical to stay on his knees on the concrete for too long. He might only be twenty-two, but that wouldn’t change the fact that he was going to be hurting tomorrow. Running his tongue up the length of Crowley’s shaft, Michael looked up to catch his lover’s dark gaze and hold it as he took as much into his mouth as he could.

Crowley’s breath stuttered as Michael swallowed around him, and his fingers tightened incrementally in Michael’s hair. It made his scalp tingle pleasantly as he worked Crowley’s cock with his mouth, circling the head with his tongue, and using his hand to stroke whatever he couldn’t fit.

The pain building in his knees was absolutely worth watching the way Crowley rolled his lower lip between his teeth, and hearing the licentious groans that started deep in his chest as he watched Michael with hungry eyes. Before long, he felt Crowley's thighs shaking beneath his hands, and Michael released his dick with a lascivious 'pop.'

"Get down here with me," Michael demanded, pulling Crowley by the hands until he was kneeling in front of him. He held Crowley's face between his hands--much the same way he might have held someone's head before snapping their neck--and kissed him desperately. Michael was beyond want and lust, and he _ needed _ Crowley, needed to bury himself in Crowley. But Michael wasn't so lost that he had forgotten he wanted to show Crowley just how much he loved him.

"Michael," Crowley said, breaking the kiss but staying so close to Michael that their lips brushed together as he spoke. His fingers were combing through Michael's hair as he spoke, simultaneously grounding him and making him more desperate to feel Crowley. "I need you, Michael."

Crowley knew--always knew--what Michael needed to hear, to feel, to say. Michael caught Crowley's mouth with his again, reclaiming it with more insistence as he eased Crowley down onto his back. The blood pooled on the plastic squelched beneath them, forced to spread from Crowley's sides by his weight. Michael leaned back to look at Crowley prone beneath him, face covered and body surrounded by the bright crimson, and made a note to himself to buy more red for Crowley.

Michael dug into the pocket of the slacks he still wore and pulled a small bottle of lube from it. He was always prepared; Crowley liked to say Michael was his 'little boy scout.' He popped the cap and squeezed some into his fingers. "Lift your legs." 

Crowley complied, pulling his legs up and letting them rest on Michael's shoulders. His eyes closed and a breathless moan escaped him as Michael pushed a slick finger past his rim, slowly working it in and out. Michael barely gave him time to adjust before he added a second finger and crooked them in search of Crowley's prostate. He knew when he found it from the way Crowley's already red, swollen cock jumped and his fingers dug into Michael's biceps hard enough to leave bruises. 

"Give me more of those beautiful noises you always make for me," Michael said, voice low and heavy with broken, lusty desperation. His need to hear Crowley was similar to the need to hear confessions from their victims. The act could be completed without it, but it would leave Michael unsatisfied and in a bad place mentally. But the slow circle of his fingertips against Crowley's prostate drew out every moan and sigh Michael needed to hear and then some. Crowley's cock was leaking steadily, and it seemed he was too close--too high--for words, and Michael was painfully hard, still imprisoned behind the fabric panels of his slacks and boxers.

Crowley whined just a little when Michael removed his fingers to do away with his pants, but he made quick work of them, using more lube to slick his cock as he replaced one of Crowley's legs up on his shoulder and pressed into him. 

Michael groaned, low in his chest, as he sheathed himself fully in the tight, slick warmth. He had to take a moment to breathe deeply and think about something other than Crowley under him, covered in the blood of their shared kill because his cock was already pulsing and threatening to spill over. Another time, Michael would take the time to make Crowley come untouched, but that night he had run out of patience.

As he thrust into Crowley, they both slid a bit on the blood-slicked plastic and Michael lifted a red hand from the floor to stroke Crowley in time with his thrusts. It was too long and not long enough all at once when Michael's hips stuttered and stilled as he came and Crowley's release spilled over his fist.

Michael collapsed over Crowley, sloppily pressing kisses to his shoulder as the sound of their heavy breathing filled the room. His knees ached already, and he was sure Crowley's back would be in similar pain. It was worth every second to see the blissed-out, tired look on Crowley's face. "We should really put a mattress down here," Michael said finally. 

Crowley just laughed. "You should get up off your knees, Darling. You'll need another shower and change before you dump him." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the still hanging corpse of Zachariah Adler. "I'll prep the body while you get cleaned up."

"How did I get lucky enough to have you?" Michael asked with a stupid grin on his face.

"Luck had nothing to do with that, my dear, and you know it."

* * *

Dragging Adler up the stairs was much more taxing than getting him into the basement, and Michael sincerely hoped the next sinner did not weigh this much. At least he didn't have to deal with limbs flopping around and going wherever they wanted. Zachariah's legs were tied together at the ankle, and his arms were crossed against his chest. Crowley never helped with this part, but Michael supposed it was since he never stuck around for the cleanup. They split the chores, just like any other couple might.

When Michael finally got Adler into the back seat of the Honda again, he shut the door and sagged against the side of the car, resting for a moment. Between the efforts of getting Adler into and out of the house, plus the confession and the amorous activities that followed, Michael was exhausted. He walked around the garage, settling into the driver's seat and buckling the seat belt before hitting the button to open the garage door and starting the car.

_ Just One Yesterday _ played through the speakers, and Michael sang along as he pulled out of his driveway. Even at this dark early hour, the next-door neighbor was outside, waving to Michael as he turned down their street. Michael smiled and waved back, and drove past him.

It was a nice neighborhood. Michael might not be interested in cultivating friendships with the people that shared his street, but he didn't want to alienate them either.

Once he got on the highway, Michael's trip was relatively short. It was too early for the usual rush hour traffic, thankfully. He got to Alfred Street Baptist Church, right around the block from the park where he picked Adler up, before sunrise as planned. Pulling the car up to the curb, Michael watched the sidewalks for a few minutes, just to make sure there were no pedestrians. Can't be too careful when dumping a body in a public place.

Stepping out of the car, Michael walked around and opened the back door. He glanced around one last time, then hooked his arms under Adler's armpits and yanked him out of the back seat. Michael dragged him just far enough that the entire corpse was on the lawn of the church and nothing hung over onto the sidewalk. 

Then he spread his arms to the sides. Crowley had outdone himself with this one. He had redressed Adler in his cheap suit, hiding nearly all the damage to his body. Except his hanging mouth was stuffed with his own cock, and each testicle was contained by the corresponding, outstretched hand. It was clever, and fitting, and Michael loved Crowley all the more for having come up with it.

Reaching into his pocket with a gloved hand, Michael pulled out a black business card. He looked down at the black and gray printed flaming sword and angel wings. They were intricately detailed, far more than they should have been given the size of the canvas, but Michael never did anything halfway. Turning the card over in his hand, his eyes traced the flowing script in which the word 'Lust' was embossed. He smiled with satisfaction as he ran a thumb over it before bending to tuck it into the breast pocket of Adler's jacket. He let a single corner stick out so the police would see it when they arrived on the scene.

Then, as quietly as he had arrived, Michael stepped back into the car and pulled back onto the road.

* * *


End file.
